Arwen Kilpatrick is planning the wedding of the year, but first she has to make sure Brampton house is ready in this excerpt of The Best Laid Planner in At the Billionaire’s Wedding.

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The man, Harry she presumed, was on his knees fiddling with the plug and revealing several inches of skin between a black T-shirt and low-hanging blue jeans. Not to mince words, he was showing butt crack. Crack of mighty fine butt.

Harry, the handyman who knew everything, was tall and lithe with intriguing hints of strength beneath the tee. And what a fabulous butt. The hips were slender, but the glutes well developed, doubtless by constant manual labor in the service of his noble overlords.

Arwen’s notions of the British aristocracy were vague, gained from reading about the royals in People magazine and, more recently, in Jane Sparks’s historical romance novels. She was fairly sure they didn’t have much real power anymore, but she kind of enjoyed imagining this hunky guy shaking off the shackles of oppression and stringing up his cruel masters from streetlamps. Although that, she remembered from an old movie version of A Tale of Two Cities, was the French Revolution. She’d majored in Environmental Studies at Emory, with an undeclared minor in the history of party-giving.

Or perhaps he just worked out a lot, a boring explanation compared to the vision of him swinging a sledgehammer under the whip of a supercilious aristocrat in jodhpurs and a monocle. Or were those Nazis?

Time to shake off the jet lag fueled lust and move into intimidating professional mode. Pity she was wearing a crumpled silk robe selected because it took up very little packing space.

“Ahem.” She staggered to her feet and knotted her sash, tightly. As she coughed again, Harry stood up and turned.

“You! You were leaving,” she said stupidly.

“Yes I was, and I came back. I happen to live here.”

She inventoried a set of features that made her understand what chiseled meant: prominent brow, straight brown hair, blue eyes, the high cheekbones she’d noticed even under the shadow of the world’s least stylish rain hat, and lips that quirked attractively.

“What do you do here exactly?” She found it hard to believe such a scruffy guy was related to a lord. His T-shirt had a paint stain in a place that drew attention to the possibility of pectoral muscles to match his fine ass.

“This and that. I’m supposed to show you round so that you can finalize the plans for Mr. Austen and Miss Sparks’s wedding.”

“Mr. Austen is determined that his fiancée gets the wedding of her dreams and it’s my business to make sure it doesn’t turn into a nightmare. It’s what I do and I take it very seriously. I haven’t had an unsatisfied bride yet.”

He flashed white teeth in his perfectly shaped mouth. “I call that excessive devotion to duty.”

“Nothing is too much trouble to make her day perfect,” she said, lowering her eyelids. “After the confetti, however, I generally turn the matter over to the bridegroom.”